


gunstock

by riverbed



Category: Hamilton - Miranda, Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Beaches, Blow Jobs, Character Study, Choking, Cock Warming, Friendship, Frottage, Gunplay, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rape Recovery, Revenge, Sexual Assault, Weapons, a hell of a lot of it, espionage as revenge, the big gay sea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2016-04-16
Packaged: 2018-05-22 06:24:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 15
Words: 11,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6068581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riverbed/pseuds/riverbed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>here we are cutting our teeth in the new world at the crossroads of ego and uncertainty.<br/>and the wolves they throw you to are hungry, always.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i didn't consider scope when i started writing this because i don't think about the consequences of my actions.  
> so it turned into a crossover, which i didn't expect, and it also turned into a trauma fic all of a sudden, which i really wasn't ready for.
> 
> warning for undernegotiation, and for a character having been assaulted. some violence, as well.

It begins with a case of foolishly self-designed mistaken identity.

Men who had been patrolling the perimeter rush, shouting, to Laurens, on duty as commander with Hamilton out. The younger one stammers that the enemy is about to enter their camp, and then promptly faints, out of breath. As his fellow soldier tends to him, Laurens hurries in the direction they came, his ornate target pistol - the one he never takes off, even at leisure - at his hip. Its aim is trusted, its barrel weight perfectly balanced. He has not wasted a shot with it yet.

Reaching the edge of camp, he sees the oncoming intruder, sure enough - riding at a breakneck pace on a huge stallion, red greatcoat tucked around him. Laurens flicks up the sight on his gun and steadies his arm, aiming at a tree across the field about ten seconds’ ride from the stranger’s current position.

He drops the flintlock, the antique mechanism groaning and clicking into place, and puts pressure on the trigger. It is a strange feeling, firing a gun in a clearing without noise to surround you. He hears the shot before he feels it leave his gun; sees the way the soldier’s head snaps round, noticing him for the first time as the lead leaves the barrel.

Christ, he got close, and as the horse rears from the warning shot, he is forced to dismount gracelessly, rolling toward John and landing on his knees, the cloak billowing around him to cover his entire body, his lowered face. He frantically raises his hands, open palmed, above the coat, shakes his head to lower the hood of the coat, and -

Familiar dark eyes. Familiar lank hair. Familiar open, submissive posture. It takes a moment to register, during which John still holds his gun study, and it takes longer than that for him to lower it, because of the goddamn look on his face.

Hamilton stares up at him, bright-eyed, knees apart and grass-stained, the stolen British cloak, made for a man much larger than him, shrouding him in garish red. His skin is sweat-slick from the exertion of riding, his hair mussed. His face is… Laurens can’t quite place the expression, but if he didn’t know better, he’d say he looks… interested. And the truth is, he doesn’t know better.

He never knows what to expect from Alexander.

Alexander looks nervously from John to the gun and back. John stares down at him in silence, trying to decipher what he sees flash through his face in fragments, tries to thread the clues together - the way he pants at the gun, the way his eyes have gotten impossibly wider, the way sweat beads anew on his neck. Finally, he lowers his pistol, holstering it in his coat. Alexander averts his gaze, suddenly fascinated by a particular patch of grass, damp from last night’s rain.

“I almost shot you,” John says, quietly, cautiously. He feels like he’s approaching something dangerous, and he can’t place why.

“Yes,” Alexander says, offering nothing else. He licks his lips, eyes fixed firmly on the ground. His tone is… off, John thinks. Almost empty. Nothing to it.

“Why the cloak?”

Alexander sighs. “They took mine.” He looks directly at John, now, and John actually takes a step backward, staggered by the intensity in his friend’s eyes. The angle changes his view - Hamilton is no longer so close, no longer directly beneath him, and it is only now that he realizes the state of Alexander’s clothing. His shirt is ripped, and he wears no jacket; his breeches are more stained than they would be from the fall alone, and his boots are… not his, John realizes. He knows Alexander’s feet, and these were not made for him; they are too large and too stiff, almost new. Alexander has a habit of wearing his boots till the soles are stripped, until somebody forces him to seek out new ones.

And what of the horse itself? The stallion now grazes the clearing a few yards from them, having calmed from the sound of the shot ringing the air. It is not Alexander’s own, not the mare he rode out on the previous morning.

John clicks his tongue, racks his brain for possibilities. He can tell Alexander wants to show him, wants him to read it off his body, as he does most things, and does not wish to speak. John is the only person Alexander Hamilton will struggle with words for, the only person for whom he will be silent.

So he puts it all together, piece by piece. The mission had been a simple one: make haste to York City and meet with Townsend, slip in unnoticed, secure a list of names with possible sympathies to the cause. The ride would not have been a dangerous one, and Hamilton insisted on going himself, without an aide. Laurens, having no reason to expect trouble on his route, had agreed, trusting Hamilton would be back in two days’ time. Here he is the evening before he was expected, with torn clothes and a stolen, enemy cloak and horse, looking more than a little worse for the wear.

Laurens swallows the conclusion, hoping it is less obvious than he thinks.

He stoops, studies Hamilton’s face. The tired eyes he is used to - it is the rest that concerns him, the aubergine coloring lifting to the surface of his skin, the line of faded rust in the ridge between his nose and his upper lip. Laurens runs the back of his hand across his cheek and watches Alexander flinch at the ghosting of contact, traces the bumps on his friend’s nose.

“What did they do to you, Alexander?” he asks in nearly a whisper. Hamilton doesn’t answer, so he moves on. They’ll get there eventually. “Did you fight your way out?”

He looks away, sniffs harshly. Okay, none of that either. Alexander does straighten up a little, rolling his shoulders back, and a bit of the proud Hamilton, the one Laurens admires more than he loves, is back. The costume he puts on for the outside world - all composure, all ease.

Laurens sees how it shakes, the suit of armor. How the light Alexander spends so much energy keeping in shines through to the outside, threatens to bust it at the seams with the sheer force of it. It’s what he wears for defense; the only way he can ignore the darkness leeching in.

John notes the eerie quiet in the field, the fact that nobody has come to assist him. This is what happens when you recruit teenage boys to fight, he muses. Inexperience and lack of ambition is a disastrous combination. Too much experience, and too much ambition - possibly equally calamitous.

He notes that Alexander has not yet gotten to his feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> do your worst in the comments.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> honi soit qui mal y pense.

There is doubt all around.

There is doubt from below in the ranks and from above. Enlisted men speak ill of Washington, accusing him of imagined nepotism and incompetence. Washington privately expresses apprehension in his letters. There is doubt in the Culper ring; Tallmadge cannot be sure who to trust, asks John for advice and John doesn’t know what to say, which evil to choose in the face of many. He does not envy Ben or Caleb, and especially not Abraham, lying to everybody in his life. John has never tried setting up such an arrangement for himself, but it sounds exhausting.

It all makes him appreciate the defiance Alexander radiates, the furious energy that burns off of him in time with his heartbeat, the breath he hitches when John tells him to kneel and he does, somehow still sure positioned below him.

John appreciates the way that while his relationship with Alexander may be tinged with difficulty, with confusion, in these moments things are clear as crystal: the heft of John’s gun in his own hand, the way it balances as he raises it - these are things he knows, things his muscles remember without having to think about them, things he can repeat perfectly until the edges of the earth curl in and envelop him.

It scares him how little he hesitates to shove the long barrel of the pistol closer when Alexander opens his mouth, an invitation. The scene is all wrong - he sits on the bed, knees apart, shoulders back, eyelids heavy as he lets Alexander lick his prized gun. Nothing is a real threat. They float suspended in their own sort of dreamstate. The rest of the army is nothing. The war is inconsequential. If they win, or if they die (for those are the only two things that can happen), they will still be here, Hamilton on his knees, dim lamplight painting his fine tanned skin. This is perpetual, impenetrable, their shared madness.

Alexander nudges the gun forward, toward John’s hip, reckless. He pushes it sideways against his groin, mouths at the outline of John’s cock through his breeches, the side of the barrel between his tongue and the fabric. John groans as the hard metal pushes against him, exerting even pressure even as Alexander’s soft tongue works him around it. John lets Alexander manipulate the situation, his hand slack around the handle, losing himself a little in the sensation.

Reckless. One of them should be present, should be controlling the situation.

But he is drunk on something, has the irresponsible urge to let this control them.

It’s getting to be too much to really contain, anyway - Alexander is straightening his posture, giving him more leverage to push John to his back on the bed and he goes with him, pressing them together chest to chest. The gun goes to the side as John’s arm flops out so as not to be caught between them. It is not in his control, not even in his view. Alexander is kissing his neck, insistent. John is a soldier, an attack dog, trained and versed. He breathes through a brief flash of anxiety, that panic that comes from not having complete control. 

His gun is out of his reach, knocked further to the side of the bed with the vigor with which Hamilton kisses him. Their hips roll against each other, and the air is thick, suddenly, heavy, a threat on Alexander’s hot breath as he pants against Laurens’ collarbone. He is boiling over, heat pounding off of him - or maybe it’s John, himself; at this point, he really couldn’t tell. Alex sits up, pops the flies of their respective pairs of trousers.

The slide of skin on skin, the friction and wet heat as Alexander wraps his spit-in hand around them both, slides the other around to grab at John’s hair as he presses their lips together again - it’s all too much, the world too bright, John’s heart surging, his nerves unable to really process the sensation as he comes apart, forever too easily for Alex. This is always too easy: the way they fit, the perfect complement of their different shades of olive skin, the energy and brilliance, like naked flame, that is read so easily off each other, alternately igniting and tempering the fire as the situation calls.

They lay there too long, the gun forgotten on the floor. There is too much disaster around them, John decides. There will be time enough for that.

He settles for stroking Alexander’s hair, feeling his breathing settle as he falls asleep. He drafts letters in his mind, too awake to really rest. Hamilton has to know he’s not the only one whose mind moves too fast.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> there is nothing alexander cannot push down, cannot work through on his own.  
> he has done it his whole life, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for animal death.  
> warning for descriptions/flashbacks of assault.
> 
> there's a lot of unhealthy desire here, too - wanting to be hurt (even after being _hurt,_ and not understanding why), refusing to negotiate needs.  
>  we'll get there.

When he gets the opportunity to bathe, he jumps at it. Steals from their room in the early morning to request a basin of hot water. He leaves John asleep in the bed and thinks fondly of last night, when they had been so tired from carrying their bags up the stairs that they had collapsed together and laughter had been pushed from their breathless chests as they wrapped themselves up in each other, legs thrown over hips and crossed ankles and whispers and kisses everywhere. He loves the joy he feels when he is with John. It’s similar to the happiness that comes from standing close to Lafayette and smelling his expensive French cologne, or admiring Hercules’ powerful form, knowing he could pin him down in an instant, render him totally immobile - it’s that sort of excitement but wilder, somehow both heavy and dizzying at the same time.

John lets him touch him and touches back, indulges Alexander’s every whim. Indulges his every fantasy, and good lord, the way he had read what was written on Alexander’s face that day outside camp. The way his heart filled up when John pulled his gun from its holster; the way he had not had to ask for it. The way they had not talked about it.

He knows they should talk about it.

But Alexander is terrified of that idea. He reels at the possibility, has no idea how he would even begin to broach this subject with John. Things are easy when it’s his body making the decisions - his body knows what it wants, what to do to get it. He cannot find the words, cannot be expected to articulate why three days after being - _attacked_ , he tells himself, for he has never been able to speak through the dryness on his tongue when he says that other word, the one which he knows fits more aptly - why three days after such an event he is eager to receive both John’s gun and his cock in his mouth, place himself below both, worship both.

He feels dirty thinking about it and imagines that the room is filled with them, the men from the other day. He doesn’t see them, but he smells them, and uses the soap to scrub harshly at the dirt on his arm. He is suddenly obsessed with being clean, for John, for the revolution, wants to step into the new world fresh-faced and ready and _show them_ , all of them, anyone who ever violated or doubted his mind or body or safety. These men had done all three, calling him vicious, belittling names as they held him down; he couldn’t use his legs to run, couldn’t use his arms to fight, and one of them had pressed the barrel of their British-issue to his temple and pulled the trigger, and though all that rang through the air was an empty _click_ and Alexander had told himself he wouldn't cry he had felt the tears rolling hot paths down his cheeks, only for some soldier’s grimy hands to smear the salt into his skin.

They had mocked him ruthlessly as they took from him all they could, no courtesy shown to his perfectly pressed clothing. After, they rifled through his bag, taking the things they thought might hold value but leaving - he had let out a breath - his journal, and kept him kneeling on the cold ground while they shot his horse, letting her die slowly, laughing openly while Alexander broke again and sobbed, wailing loudly this time, his heart torn open so wide he could only focus on the plight of the poor animal, projecting his own pain onto her.

The rogue band of soldiers rode off without much more ado, only one pausing to spit at him from astride his horse.

He had crossed to the mare, discarded carelessly, her carcass not even given the honor of serving for food, had pet her bloodstained white fur and fallen asleep against her breast and when he woke he had taken a stained cloak they had left behind and wandered the woods till he came upon a little town, the time for rendezvous with Tallmadge surely long-past - though since they had stolen his watch, he would never know for sure. He had to get back to camp, had to find his bearings and return to friendly territory so everyone would know he wasn’t dead.

It was nighttime, pitch-dark, and the little town stood quiet with sleep. Making his way to a barn, he barely paid a mind to stealth, assuming that if he were discovered he would be either killed or taken in, and neither seemed so bad an option. But he stole inside unfound, and found a proud stallion, and as he swung up onto its back he noticed that his own feet were bare (and it almost made him laugh, that he hadn't noticed before), so he took a pair of boots that laid against the wall and rode out, delighted to find that the horse possessed all the speed he had assumed looking at it.

And the rest - well, John knew the rest. Most of it was written on his face, in that moment on the ground eye-to-eye with Laurens’ gun, and Alexander knew he would get his way, that he wouldn’t be poked or prodded for details.

His Laurens never pushes, never demands. He yields, lets Hamilton direct and decide. Alexander loves him for it.

He finishes bathing, in the most basic of definitions. He assumes he will never fully scrub the way they had leered at him from his memory, but he files it away with the rest of the bad things he chokes down, shivers as the water drips off of him. He makes his way back to the room and flops down next to John, naked and with his hair damp. John reaches out for him, takes him by the waist and snuggles against him in his warmth. Alexander lets sleep swim over him, realizes how tired he still is. He rests, somewhat fitful, but each time he wakes John is still there.


	4. Chapter 4

The nightmares come. Hamilton expects those. He is not unused to them.

What does surprise him is the visceral force with which they come; they almost seem more real than the event did, itself. Alexander swears he was able to remove himself in the moment; as the men had taken him he had flown away, able to ignore them, mostly, until something particularly hurt - a slap to his face, a cruel foot digging into his ribs. The dreams feel like those moments drawn out endlessly, places where he can’t disconnect himself from the assault, where he is forced to note every wrinkle and flush and smirk on every face that had surrounded him. He does not wish to know these animals, ever; the dreams seem intent on making sure he does.

But he also knows Laurens, knows blind the contours and lines and ridges of his face. He touches that face while he is pulled into bed night after night by exhaustion and by his warmth, running his fingertips over his nose and lips, the promise of sleep peaceful. Sometimes John sings to him, and Alex thinks of softly lapping water, waves coming up to wash across his toes. They are the same lullabies his mother used to sing him, but John couldn’t possibly know that. And the knowledge seems too fragile to voice; he worries that if he tells, John will wince, grow fearful and never sing them again.

He wills himself to dream of home, the home he’d had before he renounced it for New York. He would rather dream of all the distant pain than of the more recent one. He has had more time to swallow the losses he’d endured as a child. Being seventeen seems so far away, even though he knows it was only a few short years ago. He feels old at twenty-three. Like time is catching up to him and everything is starting to blur together. His mark, the one he knows he must make, feels elusive. He aims and fires but the target moves; trickery. His life has been one loss after another and he desperately holds onto John, absolutely unwilling to let him go in the dark.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “This is the same water as at home,” Alexander says, and it’s such a silly thing to say but John nods solemnly.
> 
> “Yes,” he confirms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for trauma reactions (specifically the strange strange feelings that come with trying to have sex after being raped.)
> 
> writing this was rough. like, i'm just sad now.
> 
>  
> 
> [ocean music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GEDt33ZFVEw)

Time on the coast has certainly done Hamilton some good.

John spots his friend sitting close to the water, coming down the beach to approach him from behind. He sets a hand atop Hamilton’s head and Alexander nudges back into it. John admires the splay of his strong thighs, lets his eyes trail down Alexander’s legs to his bare calves and toes, submerged in the lap of the small waves at his feet. Alexander is staring out at the ocean, and he doesn’t break his focus to look at John, but he does purr a little when Laurens flexes his hand, tugging a bit at his hair.

He takes a seat next to Hamilton, who shifts but still doesn’t look at him. John doesn’t mind. He understands.

“This is the same water as at home,” Alexander says after a few moments, and it’s such a silly thing to say but John nods solemnly, though he knows Alexander won’t see it.

“Yes,” he confirms. He reaches out for Hamilton’s hair again. He senses that he needs grounding, and loops his hand through a few curls at the nape of his neck. Alexander tilts his head back, lets John pull, his eyes shut.

“I feel like if I stretch my legs out far enough into it, I’m there,” Alexander says. “Like if I were to submerge myself, it’d be like going back. Sometimes it’s tempting.” He says it absentmindedly, like the thought is not a dangerous one.

John feels like it’s an invitation, and he recognizes that reaction as a dangerous one, as well.

Alexander lets the water lap at his feet, feels his body stretched between the siren’s call far out at sea and the hand John has in his hair, keeping him ashore. He knows the islands are too far to swim. He thinks he probably doesn’t care.

*

Alexander doesn’t attempt to escape out to sea, but when they return to the beach at dusk and walk far enough on it to find a spot secluded by the height of the cliff behind them, he lunges at the opportunity to sink in a little.

They both shed their clothes and leave them piled on rocks, and Alexander doesn’t wait for John, floating out onto the water on his back as if it is the most natural thing in the world. He feels safe, cradled in the water, cool with night, feeling it rock and support him. He remembers wading out a little too deep as a child and stepping on a jellyfish - is surprised how easy it is to remember the sting in the arch of his foot. John is holding that same foot now, like an anchor, standing in the shallows and looking up at him. Alexander is struck by the way his long curls frizz out where they have gotten damp.

He tips his own head back, wetting his face briefly, comes up and smells so much salt and tide he sees flashes of the colors of the sunrise over the Leeward Islands.

John tentatively presses his thumb into the arch of Alex’s foot, like he’s not quite sure what he’s doing, watching for Hamilton’s reaction. Hamilton watches him back, letting his eyelids go heavy; permission. John brings his other hand up and digs the heel of it into the flesh, and Hamilton dips his head back again, letting his forehead cool in the water. He feels himself sinking a little further down into the ocean; it comes up around his shoulders, laps at his neck. The moon is out and bright, and he stares at it, easily forgetting how close they are to shore. He feels as if he is in the middle of nowhere and is happy to drift there, happy to be with his Laurens in their own little part of the vast sea. 

John is grinning, feral, moving his massage up Hamilton’s calf, and Alexander is so endeared to him that he melts into him, letting the water rock them closer. He appreciates the playfulness, John’s willingness to let him frolic a little, revel in his natural wildness.

John fits himself into the V Hamilton’s legs make, and Alexander wraps his thighs around his waist, taking some ownership. It’s so easy - this is so easy, Hamilton thinks, as John enters him, his body lax and accepting, so why is he panicking? Why is fear rising in him like a threat in his gut, why do his lungs want him to scream? Why does he want to tell John to _stop?_

He doesn’t. He lies there on the water. He floats. It is so natural to float. Distantly, he acknowledges John working with the rhythm of the waves, letting them tug him away and using a firm grip on his hips to pull him back to him. Alexander lets his arms stretch out around him, tightening his fists in the water, uselessly trying to grab onto something he knows is totally fluid. There’s no ground out here, solidity only in the way John’s hipbones grind against his ass - the exact wrong kind of pressure but Alexander can’t put his finger on why.

John finishes, leans down to kiss Alexander’s neck, but he can’t _do this_ right now, and he tucks his chin, dodges out from under John by turning onto his front. He lets his face fall into the water; it makes it easier to convince himself the salt he tastes and the stinging wetness in his eyes are just the ocean. He stays under a little too long, feels his chest tighten with the denial of breath, then straightens, treading with his legs - intrinsic, as naturally, unthinkingly as Washington rides a horse - and inhaling sharply in the breeze.

He doesn’t look back to see John as he starts to paddle away from him. He swims until he is a certain distance he estimates to be far enough away that if he does turn he will not be able to see the expression on his face, and he notes that John does not try to follow him - there’s no disturbance in the water behind him.

Alex knows this ocean, knows the water like it’s his own blood, like they are mixed into one thing. Sometimes - more often, lately - he imagines himself to be part of it, just afloat indefinitely. He finds the notion almost romantic. The sea is a constant; each journey he embarks upon he comes out on the other side and it is still there. It endures.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> god, this has gotten dark, hasn't it?  
> i try to write nice simple porn and this is what happens instead
> 
> reminder that comments are always appreciated


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He takes a deep breath and opens his mouth, starts talking. He will be quiet for John, but he needs to speak for himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we need to have a talk.

They leave their little spot on the cove separately. By the time Hamilton decides he ought to get out of the water, his skin feels like ice and Laurens is nowhere in sight. He has left behind his frock coat, so Alexander dons it over his own, huddles into the warmth and scent of it; something so familiar, the coat just a shadow of the way John’s arms feel around him. Why had it been so terrifying, to have John so close to him? That’s the safest place he knows to be.

He treks back up the beach, the sand sticking to his wet feet. It is late at night; no lights are on in the little coastal town, and Alexander stops to stare up at the sky, stars bright in the pitch black. The air is crisp and light. He finds himself wondering when Washington will call them back to duty, realizing that he wants to stay here forever. The urge to fight within him seems to have ebbed away, and he wants to rest.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees movement and turns, almost disinterested, toward the source. John is lying back against a log, relaxed, but as Alexander approaches he can see that his face is fixed in something a glare, not toward Alexander but out at the bay.

John doesn’t turn to look at him as he gets closer. Alexander slumps down next to him, rests his head on his shoulder, then adjusts to put it in his lap. He doesn’t chance another look at John’s face; he lays on his side and looks out to sea. Laurens’ hand goes to his hair, like it always does automatically, and he drags his fingers through it, pulling sea salt through his wet locks.

“What happened?” he asks, very carefully. _Back there in the water. Four days ago, in the woods. Way back when your mother died, let’s go over **that** again. _ It’s not that he doesn’t know, Alexander thinks viciously. He just wants to hear him say it, because he is cruel.

He is being melodramatic.

He sighs, turns over to bury his face in the fabric of John’s shirt at his waist. John’s belly is warm, rising and falling in pattern as his diaphragm expands and contracts with his measured breathing. Alexander reaches up, lays a palm against it. John shivers, probably just because his hand is cold.

He takes a deep breath and opens his mouth, starts talking. He will be quiet for John, but he needs to speak for himself.

“It wasn’t a memory, not really. Just.” He breathes in again, deliberately. There is so much of John’s smell around him. He is still wearing John’s jacket. “A notion? Something I didn’t let in. It wouldn’t let me… well.” This is so ineloquent. He goes to try again, but John shushes him.

“Alexander.” He says it very seriously. It is the voice he uses to reel Alex back in when he gets carried away, the tone he affects when he wants Alexander to listen. So he does, lays there and lets out shaky breaths against John’s stomach. He hadn’t even said anything of substance. Why is his throat tight?

“Just tell me _what you felt._ Don’t try to define it.” It makes so much sense. “Don’t try to rationalize it.” He is speaking so gently, petting his hair so softly. Alexander considers it, nods to steel himself.

“I was fine until you went to fuck me,” he says, figuring John has heard him say everything he will ever say, anyway. No use choosing words carefully for the sake of politeness. “I wanted you to,” he rushes to clarify, knowing John will be looking at him horrified. “I realized it too late. There was this - this seize in me, this wash of… horror, almost, John, of dread. I felt like I was drowning.” His voice drops quiet, ashamed to say the words. “I felt like I couldn’t trust you anymore.”

John seems to be trying to digest this. Alexander chances to look up at him, observes his pursed lips and furrowed brow. He wants to kiss him but feels it would be strangely inappropriate.

“What was it I told you that night at camp, when you were spouting your delusions of grandeur?” he asks finally, and Alex can hear the good humor in his voice. “When you said, ‘Someday I’ll change the world?’”

Alexander swallows. He remembers it very clearly. The campfire embers low, everyone but Laurens and Lafayette having drifted off and gone to bed. The three of them had sat around for hours, drinking the wine normally for special occasions and bumping carelessly into each other, affection unreserved.

“You said, ‘My dear Hamilton,’” he lets himself smile, imitating John’s deeper voice, “‘I’ll be by your side every step of the way.’”

“Every step of the way, Alexander.”

He sobs into Laurens’ thigh.


	7. Chapter 7

A courier drops the letter from Laurens just as Ben and Caleb have settled in for the evening at Valley Forge. Ben bolts up in his cot as he reads it, and Caleb, distracted by a codebreaking trinket he’s been trying to revive, glances at him belatedly. “What is it, Tallboy?” he asks, and Ben gets up, crosses the room and sticks the letter in his face in lieu of answering. Caleb takes it, because Ben’s behavior is weird, and his friend takes a deep breath, lets his perfect posture slump and bends at the waist, his hands on his own knees.

Caleb’s eyes go wide as he reads the news. He looks at Ben in silent questioning partway through, and Ben gives him a single, sharp nod, knowing.

“Christ.” Caleb finishes the letter, folds it delicately, as if it is a keepsake. The old codecracking scroll clatters off the bed and to the floor - it’ll probably never work again. “I know it’s a war, but I guess I didn’t think - some men will stoop to any low, to get -”

Ben nods again, this time slow, his gaze fixed on the sidewall of the tent, still bent halfway over.

“What can we do?” Caleb asks, and he shouldn’t be surprised at the answer; he knows Benjamin.

“Fight,” he says decisively, and throws himself down on his own cot. Caleb extinguishes the lamp twenty minutes later, sure that Ben has not gone to sleep but also sure that there is nothing left to talk about. He turns toward the wall and stares at it until the darkness obscures it from view and he has no perception of the distance from him at which it stands.


	8. Chapter 8

Alex does his best to pretend he isn’t avoiding John.

John knows better. He sees the way he averts his eyes when their gazes lock briefly and the way he defers command to him when they should both be in charge. He picks up easily on the way he won’t smirk sideways to him when Washington addresses them, at phrases he would any other time find dark humor in. He aches where the brief glances and stolen kisses were, but he knows Alexander aches, too, for he knows how Hamilton keens for touch.

He seems to not be… ready for it. John remembers a few nights ago on the beach. He has been hesitant to reach out and touch Alex since, for fear of sparking some unknown pain, fear of becoming the embodiment of some lingering threat. But he also remembers the way Alex had found him, not necessarily waiting, after, had sought him out for comfort, and remembers his hand on the back of his neck and in his hair and rubbing across his shoulders. What hurts is not the lack of touch - or, it does, but it's the break in connection that really drives in the wound like a brand. They are attuned to one another’s bodies, intimately, yes, but also in general. Normally, they spar and wrestle with their extra energy, write in each other’s company with their thighs touching, read moods off each other like medical instructions, respond in kind. That direct pathway to each other has been interrupted, and Laurens has this feeling nagging at him, this dread that it will never flow as freely as it once did. There may be reconciliation, and Hamilton may touch him even in exactly the same ways as he once did, but he knows, though he does not want to, that there will always be a stopper in the bottle, a fork in the road, a hiccup in their relationship at this point where they diverged. And it’s no doing of their own, on either part.

That’s what eats at him the most. As he sits in his tent not studying the correspondence he should be, slumped in his armchair with whisky in hand, he constructs from his imagination some figures in garish red coats, their noses turned up and their boots shined perfectly. He grows angrier with every sip from the bottle, his rage coalescing into a heady energy he’s familiar with - the urge to run, to kill. Violence stirs in him; a craving for the feeling of his knuckles against some immoral cad’s nose, the freeing sound of his jaw breaking, lust for the blood that would pour down his face in streams.

And he feels lost, floundering without the way Alexander’s hand on his shoulder would normally ground him, press him into the earth and remind him of his solidity. The floating is probably not helped by the alcohol. He knows, and does not care. He wants to get drunk so he’ll fall asleep and not dream of the men who hurt Alexander. He wants to be so drunk he can’t see, so gone he won’t be able to even imagine a world in which Alex is touched by pain or unease.

And then his vision _is_ blurring and his eyes are closing, begging for rest, but he thinks he sees Alexander, for real, unpained and easy, and he thinks he smells him (bonfire and wine), feels him curl up, small in his lap, and he falls asleep drunk but anchored once again and he knows distantly that this rift between them will heal with enough time and attention paid to it. It’s woefully unsatisfying but the woe is so deep that for now he will take it, the slight reassurance, the comforting weight of Alexander against his chest as it rises and falls. He pushes away a nasty thought about what time and patience he may not have left.


	9. Chapter 9

When he wakes Hamilton is still there, sleeping against him. Both of them will have to stretch to relieve the awkward position stress on their overused joints, but Laurens stays where he is, pushing Alexander’s hair away from his face and studying his expression, noting the way his eyes do not twitch behind their lids. He wonders what sleep he’s gotten lately. If it’s anything like his own, it has been horrible, fit-filled and cold without the usual other body to warm him. Alexander’s taken to sleeping in his own cot, and John had basically assumed there to be a wall around it - when Alexander curls up in bed at night, John leaves him alone.

He feels warmer than he has in a week. Fuller than he has in twice as long.

He curls his hand around Alex’s shoulder, strokes steadily down his arm. His shirt is a bit dirty and his neck is damp with sweat, but Laurens leans down to kiss him there anyway, soft enough so that he doesn’t wake. He revels in their closeness, marvels at the scent coming off his skin. Like burnt pine, like fresh fall air. Everything is clear here with Alex in his arms - everything simplified, reduced to the two of them. All else could be left to chance if he is allowed to keep Hamilton like this.

Alas, he knows the notion is a foolish one. Circumstances set aside, Hamilton is the restless type, with the type of hunger in him that is never satisfied to idle. John, with his own comfortable upbringing, takes a certain pleasure in laziness. It only serves to make Hamilton anxious. He is unable to truly relax.

John strokes his unwashed hair again and feels the slickness of it slide through his fingers. He really would be content to be like this forever, for no one to find them and for the seasons to change and for next year’s snow to take them, together, one whole instead of two pieces with jagged edges.

But Alexander will never be content. And he will not die peacefully; he will die fighting, as ravenous and frenzied as he has ever been.

John thinks of falling asleep and not waking back up and finding Alex, painless and smiling, where he emerges from the uncertainty of that darkness.


	10. Chapter 10

After another week of restless sleep and shifting eyes Laurens corners Hamilton after a banquet.

He doesn’t want to do this, doesn’t want to demand an explanation from his friend in such a situation. But he has to know where he stands. At night, Alex seeks him out for warmth, but during the day, he ducks out from under his gaze. In the mornings one of them is always gone before the other wakes; neither lingers long enough to initiate the conversation they know is inevitable. They haven’t spoken since the evening at the beach. Alex goes there himself, sometimes, John knows. He stays at camp, feeling a lot like he had when Hamilton had swam away from him. Useless. For his part, he knows Alexander is treading water, only trying to keep his head above. Stubborn, but what happens when his resolve wavers?

As they leave, a little drunk, Alexander bids goodnight to one of the other officers and John grabs his wrist, drags him away from the tent and backs him against a tree. Alexander sways but tilts his head back to look up at John, feigning nonchalance, like the air in the inches between them isn’t a fuse burning from both ends, a firecracker ready to snap. He bends his knee and props his foot against the tree behind him, rolls his shoulders - casual. John needs to remind himself that they are both intoxicated to prevent himself from taking Alex by the ear and shoving him to the ground for all his smug pretending.

He also has to remind himself why he’s here. Hamilton’s lips are parted and his cheeks are flushed and the column of his neck is long and vulnerable, and John wants to kiss him, force the pieces he knows are failing to align back together and seal them into the whole. For once, he senses, their shared movement will not help the situation when it has on so many other occasions - he knows Alexander needs some stillness. Time to think.

John reaches out with one of his hands, hesitates, lowers it to settle on Alexander’s shoulder. Tests the boundaries. Alex shifts but doesn’t flinch away, and John resists the urge to tighten his fingers. This is enough. This is more than he’s had in their waking hours. He will swallow it, as painful as it is to force down.

 _What are you doing, Alexander,_ is the question his guilt wants him to ask to save face, but he gulps that down, too, and asks the indulgent one: “What have I done, Alexander?”

Anger immediately flashes across Hamilton’s features. “You think this is about you?” He scoffs, spits on the ground, then returns to hold Laurens’ gaze. “The rich little Laurens boy, always worrying about yourself.” It stings. John reminds himself that he has been shot, that he can take this. That he has to take this, has to hear it. “This is why I can’t talk to you about this, John. This is why. You turn everything around and make it about you.” A bit of the anger fizzles into sadness; John sees it in the way Alex’s brown eyes soften, but his lip holds the snarling curl of rage. He looks at John expectantly.

When John speaks, his voice is softer than he would have liked. “I can’t let you self-destruct,” he says, and winces before Alexander even has time to scoff again, knowing it was the wrong way to phrase it.

“My self-destruction will not ruin your reputation, don’t worry.” Now Alexander is being really vicious, and John tries to anchor himself to the spot where he touches his shoulder.

“It’s not about that - I - Alex.” John stops there, takes a deep, shaking breath. He’s so goddamn frustrated; he has to set aside his own anger, his own confusion, to address this. He recalls a time when Hamilton could read his mind. It seems like a more distant memory than he thinks it really is. He turns his face toward the sky, seeking a shooting star to wish on.

He chooses his words more carefully now. “Let me help you.”

“I don’t need your help, Laurens!” Ouch. His surname is spit so bitterly that he recoils, his hand dropping from Alexander’s shoulder, only for a moment. He made a promise to himself that he would see this through. When he replaces his hand, it’s heavier, more insistent. 

“I know you don’t!” He counters. “For God’s sake, Alexander, let me be your -” _Your way back. Your light. Your angel, like you used to call me._ “Your friend.” John surprises himself. The word conjures images of simple affection, moments of innocent embrace and shared laughter. Their experiences together are so convoluted, the sweet so comingled with the filthy that John is shocked at the ease with which his brain so readily separates the two. But the want is clear - suddenly he has a goal in mind, a point of reference, idyllic and pure.

Alexander seems to soften at that. And who knew it was so simple? The muscles under his palm flex as he rolls that shoulder again. His mouth goes slack. His posture relaxes with it. John tilts his head, and Alexander leans into him, and though it doesn’t feel as natural as it once did, he ends up with his head on John’s chest and John wraps his arms around him gently, as if he is afraid to hold him too tightly, and they fit as well as they ever have even through their hesitation.

“This isn’t fair, Alexander,” he says quietly, after a moment. “Let me in. Let me be here.” He pulls back, looks Hamilton in the eye. “Every step of the way, remember?”

Alexander nods, his face somewhat expressionless. Laurens studies the dark circles under his eyes, reaches up with his thumb to trace one. Alexander shivers as John drags his cool fingers down his cheek, warmed by alcohol and fervor. He grabs John’s wrist suddenly, turns to pull his index finger into his mouth. Taking back some control. John watches him warily, but Alexander tilts his head backward and releases his grip, and John picks up where he left off, adding his middle digit and pushing them further into Alex’s mouth. The look on his face still betrays nothing. The dark circles look darker as shadow descends over the camp.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is dedicated to fullmetalpetticoat, because, you know. body language.

“We should go,” John says. He means anywhere; to their tent, to the beach, further into the woods where the twigs will crunch under their feet and they will lose their way and fall asleep under the clear sky of stars. Desert the war effort, go into hiding together and feign safety, domesticity.

Alexander takes his wrist, lowers his hand and places it against his own throat. He finally gives Laurens a meaningful look, shifting to bare more of his neck. John hesitates; it’s been too long, and he knows Hamilton has barely any breath to give. But he needs to be what he needs, almost has to prove to himself what he can do for Hamilton.

He presses up into his neck, exerting only base pressure forward and most of it upward. Alexander lolls back against the tree, going up on his toes to accommodate the way Laurens pushes. He gasps and opens his mouth as if to moan, looking down through half-lidded eyes and long, wet lower lashes.

He wriggles a bit, and John moves up into him, pressing their bodies together. letting Hamilton rock down on the thigh he puts between his legs for support. He can feel Alex getting hard and is overcome with desire, and a funny, secondary sensation - hope, that maybe this will be healing for Alexander. That maybe he just has to forget, through enough reinforcement, that this can be real and connective and sometimes even transformative, transcendent, instead of cruel and harsh and damaging. He watches Alexander for signs of distress but he’s closed his eyes and is riding high on it, rationing his shallow breath above John.

Laurens lets dangerous thoughts fuel his continuance. He’s angry, he pushes harder, he examines that as Alex’s eyes slide shut, as his air cuts off.

The injustice of war, the unfairness of General Washington - constantly itching for a battle he cannot go to. He feels his hands trembling.

Alexander - retreating. Never him. His falling away, slipping even momentarily through John’s grasp. But never him. The men who hurt him, anyone who would hurt him. His nails dig into the smooth skin at the sides of Alexander’s throat, leaving little half-moons as marks.

Himself. Useless in a time of need. Always ready to fight but for the first time Alexander doesn’t need his his fight. His face is so close to Hamilton’s, and he studies it, the angled jaw, the soft eyes. What’s most bitter is the irony - John should have been with him on that errand, should have known to protect him. Now it’s too late. Alexander doesn’t need protecting. He needs healing, needs - needs -

A skillset John finds himself without. A beacon. Softness, gentling where there is only brute force. Even now John holds him by force, keeping him where he wants him. Suddenly he’s disgusted, and all the hope drains out of him, and he drops Alexander too quickly and he crumples to the ground, breath heavy, cloak the same late-fall green as the leaves. He stays there, but he turns to face John from below, glares at him, and there’s - something in his eyes that John hasn’t seen in what feels likes ages. Some of the fire. Some of Hamilton’s own fight, his own tendency to rise and meet him.

John stoops to his knees. He reaches out, puts a hand against Alexander’s face, moving slightly and replacing it a couple times to remind himself of it. Rememorize it. He runs his thumb down Hamilton’s nose. His favorite nose; he teases Alexander about its size but loves when he nuzzles it against him. Or, he used to. It seems like everything is marked by a turning point, a stark line between the past and what’s present. He’s obsessed with finding a way to blur them together, balance them out. He wants to push so badly but knows how unkindly Hamilton take to pushing. He is not stupid enough to believe anything in him has changed; pieces of him are hiding. He has seen it before; it’s almost a game for Alexander around people of importance.

But John is so spoilt on seeing all of him. For Laurens Alexander is his whole self, the open generosity with which he lays himself bare for him in body and spirit. Now he covers more strategically, and John wishes he’d studied so much more carefully while he had access; he mourns the loss, cannot help feeling it acutely in the way his stomach churns when he’s searching for the right words. That’s a lot, lately; he feels like he’s always trying to find words that might be right, and too often he settles for uncomfortable, pregnant silence instead when he wants to be a tome of wisdom.

His frustration he beats down. This must be about Hamilton; he must be a stoic guide, not the sharp edge of reminder when he moves too slow for John’s own liking.

He takes a deep breath, looks at Alexander, really looks at him, and summons all his resolve. And smiles. _Time to drum up some of that famous stubbornness when it really counts, John Laurens. Time to learn on the fly._

Alexander does smile back at him. It’s tired but it’s something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, that porn i promised... didn't happen. sorry. i'm full of remorse.
> 
> this might be my favorite bit of this so far, though?


	12. Chapter 12

Laurens doesn’t follow Alexander to the beach.

There’s too much associated now. Too much history. John can’t shake the nausea that washes over him when he thinks of that night in the water - the numbness in Alexander’s eyes, the way his body had curled away from him. John sees death all around him but cannot fathom going near the sea again, dread taking root in him at the thought, deep as pitch-black ocean and with the promise of an easy drowning.

But Alexander goes. Some nights he’s already gone when John comes in after finishing his work, and some nights it’s late when he picks up and leaves. John thinks to stifle his protests each time, lets him go because when he comes back he smells like saltwater and John inevitably goes a little green at the scent but he holds him close if he wants him to, breathes shared breath if he wants him to, pushes himself against Alex’s strong thighs. If he wants him to.

It is normally a battle, now, a sick routine - in daylight, John tries to pry an answer from him, and Alexander’s sly nature and his foxlike charm nearly convince him not to insist on one. He drops to his knees and clasps his hands behind his back; he bares his throat and beckons him closer with the lewd expanse of skin; he makes it clear he wants John to rip him apart from the inside out. Laurens cannot bear it; he is at the point he can’t bring himself to lay a hand on Alexander, would hate himself if he did. This seems less destructive, their sleepy salt-scented rutting, all the fight drained out of Hamilton and out to sea.

John almost feels worse for it. He wonders if he’s wrong, if what Hamilton wants is what he should be given, if it is really his place to make any decision as to his healing. After all, John has no idea what he’s doing. He should be listening, considering, not setting boundaries. What do his boundaries have to do with anything? 

And Alexander has never been one for rules.

John resolves not to confront him again. He gentles out of him hints and small discussions, reading together by firelight in the early hours of the morning, when they should both be asleep. Alexander tells him what he is scared of, and as a show of good faith John finds himself sharing fears he never knew he had before this situation arose. Desertion. Loneliness.

These feelings of uselessness, hovering constantly just outside the spot in John's head that registers the sweetness of Alexander's lips.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> benjamin and caleb begin plotting something grand.  
> their best mission yet.
> 
> hamilton will be avenged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i bought two books on the culper ring - the one that inspired the show as well as another i found - and am inspired anew.

Caleb turns out to be rather handy at tracking down who was where and when. Ben files that away, notes in his private journal that they have a bloodhound in their midst, a reminder to tuck it into a letter to Washington at a more opportune time. As it stands, Ben is working on his own time; he pays the same amount of attention to current assignments from on high and stays up late at night corresponding with Caleb, who has narrowed the possibilities down to two patrols.

Ben thinks it over, considers their options. They could report the misconduct to the section commanders, but they don’t know yet who was involved, not even how many of them, and Ben doesn’t have it in him to trust that the corruption doesn’t climb the ladder of command. They could report to their own CO; Ben knows he could take it right to Washington and he would nod solemnly, that Washington would send a section patrol to capture and interrogate the sons of bitches, that they’d find out exactly what happened and deal with it accordingly. The men involved would be shamed from the army. 

Neither of those exactly have the edge of satisfaction that Ben can taste when he imagines he and Caleb executing some good old-fashioned espionage. Infiltrate the squads, earn their trust, perhaps turn them against each other, hang some fear of betrayal above their heads and watch their bonds implode. Or maybe, and this is the outcome Ben’s idle hands itch for, a brawl, Ben and Caleb’s bloodlust just a backdrop for a scene that truly justifies killing them themselves. 

It’s late. Ben lies down on his cot and constructs a figure from his mind, broad, strong, faceless but laughing cruelly. He pictures Hamilton, slight, normally boisterous to compensate, hunched smaller, trembling. His head spins. He’s growing delirious, the late hour and the stresses of this new issue getting to him. He wishes he could make his way to Hamilton and Laurens, co-commanding their battalion in Jersey, see them. He has this sickness in him, this strange feeling that Hamilton has disappeared, somehow, and feels that if he could only convince himself that Hamilton remained, was at least physically all right, it might ease some of the nausea. He sees Hamilton with fire in his eyes during an argument, Hamilton swaying drunk and singing in a rare moment of joy. He thinks of John Laurens, his protectiveness, always admiring cautiously from the sidelines. The closeness of the two men had never bothered Ben or any of the other Culpers, nor did it bother Washington, but those in the know are nevertheless under no illusions over the interpretation of such relationships.

Ben shudders to think the way it might have spread through the ranks, gotten to some of the British army through the grapevine. But he can’t imagine such an outline. They were always so careful, their affection never spoken in mixed company, and anyway, there are better ways to ruin a man for his preferences than a physical attack. Hamilton knows them himself, has ruined plenty of men by the power of his written word. A rape - Ben feels rage surge through him at the word, awful, tempting - is only effective for the stupid and brutish, and has nothing to do with the victim. That’s what’s most infuriating, he decides. There was no regard for Hamilton, for his personhood, for the aftermath.

His attackers will learn the value of considering aftermath.


	14. Chapter 14

John fields daily letters from Benjamin. He always forgets how manic the man gets; he’s organizing his thoughts as he writes him. He doesn’t see Tallmadge often, but he writes angry like he speaks angry, wordy and unrestrained. He and Hamilton are similar in that regard.

He sorts through the papers, taking notes as he goes, trying to pull out the most useful threads of information. Dates, locations - Ben and Caleb have been rather effectively tracking the soldiers they believe to be the perpetrators. There are six of them, five identified. John feels his blood coursing hot as he reads the names.

Alexander comes in and he freezes. Nobody’s told him, and John suddenly feels deeply guilty - all this conspiracy and Hamilton hasn’t even been given his own voice to the situation. It’s hard to articulate how badly he feels, ripping such a fiercely independent man’s agency from him. His attackers are named and Hamilton doesn't know, and John is so tired of making decisions for Alexander. He is tired of knowing more than Alexander does. He is tired. It feels like lying and he knows how personal a slight dishonesty is to him. He wants to come clean, give Alexander these names, let him heal; but he also doesn’t know how Hamilton will react. He envisions him riding out alone once John has fallen asleep to confront them on his own and being easily overpowered, lost to him. Laurens can’t take that chance.

And Alexander doesn’t ask about the papers, anyway. He goes to his knees under Laurens’ desk and undoes his breeches without a word, digs his fingernails into his thighs for leverage and takes his cock in his mouth. John shivers, puts a hand in Hamilton’s hair, keeps reading and taking notes. It’s debauched but Laurens knows what’s expected of him; Alexander just wants a solid weight in his mouth, some closeness, the opportunity to focus, the grounding. He relishes the scent of John’s skin and holds him in his mouth, breathing through his nose in quiet huffs against the base of his prick.

He adjusts to the feeling, successfully overriding his impulse to thrust into the wet heat of his mouth, and Alexander hums with content. When John looks down his eyes are shut, and he looks beautiful, filthy. John shakes himself and tries to go back to his reading, but Alexander’s sinking lower, and his throat flutters around the head and John pulls his hand through his loose hair, tucks it behind his ear. The letters are a lost cause - and John admits to himself that the more Hamilton does this, the more eager he is to return to his demanding ways, the better John feels about his recovery; the more he indulges Alexander’s reestablished sex drive, the less guilt he has day to day. It feels in these moments like they are their old selves, like an oil painting rendering them in soft vignettes. John gives in, leans back and closes his eyes. Focuses on the painting.

Alexander isn’t happy to let him revel. He picks up the pace, pulling his hips forward and encouraging him to lift them to facilitate his pants coming down. Hamilton puts his finger in his mouth alongside John’s cock, gets it good and wet, then runs it slick down his bollocks and down, lower, to circle round his entrance. John shudders hard and bucks his hips, sinking him further into Hamilton’s mouth. Hamilton sighs as he takes it, opens his throat and looks up at John and John would swear he’s smiling.

He lets Alexander spend a good long while playing with his hole, encouraging him enthusiastically when he sinks each finger in. They don’t do this often; mostly Alex prefers to be laid out and taken, but it’s a known fact at this point that even if he hadn’t a guilty conscience John would still do anything for Alexander, is complete putty in his deft hands.

Alexander makes a curious noise, like a question, and stares up at him, and John is compelled to nod to steel himself, slowing his thrusts into Alex’s mouth to rise and move them to the bed. Alexander climbs on after him, kneels before him, and they kiss, languid and unhurried. John tastes the tang of himself on Hamilton’s tongue and moans into him. They pull apart panting and gasping and John ruts against Hamilton’s hip, scrabbling at the fabric covering him suddenly desperate to get it off.

Hamilton shrugs out of his shirt then unties his fly and drops his breeches, his cock full and heavy. John whispers some nonsense against his lips and kisses him again, and drops appreciative nips along his jaw. Hamilton eventually gets him turned round, and he lays a warm hand against John’s back to steady himself as he lines up and there’s a moment of panic, but Hamilton had known what he was doing, had opened him up just fine, John realizes, as he eases into him. John gasps as Hamilton buries himself to the hilt, and his hand leaves his the small of Laurens’ back as he arches backward and moans, loud, and John wants to do this for him forever just to hear that sound.

Alexander rocks against him gently, letting him get used to the feeling, and soon enough John’s had enough of that so he starts meeting Hamilton as he pushes into him, slamming his ass back against his hips. He’s on his hands and knees, loads of leverage, feels power run through him even in this undignified position. He’s drunk on the feeling of Alex’s hipbones jamming into his flesh, and then as if in silent understanding Alex grabs his hips, gripping hard enough to bruise as they move, and John pants _Hurt me hurt me hurt me,_ so quiet, and he hopes Alexander doesn’t hear. But he wants to get hurt, wants to get ruined, wants to be absolved in blood and dirt.

Hamilton peaks with a strained whine, and John follows soon after, his orgasm a shock of relief that floods him warm and slow; his cock jumps and Alex’s fingers lighten to a shivery brushing sensation on his hips as he spends, untouched. Alexander leans over him to bite at his shoulders, the nape of his neck, and John collapses under their combined dead weight, flat on his stomach, the friction of his oversensitive cock against the scratchy wool blanket uncomfortable but somehow welcome. Alexander pushes his hair around with his hand carded through it, plays with it as he kisses down Laurens’ back. John just breathes, letting Alex examine his skin, focusing on their happy closeness.

Alex finally rolls off of him, and John turns to face him, puts a hand over Alex’s chest where his heart lies beneath. Hamilton looks down at his hand but doesn’t say anything, and they fall asleep connected there; John feels his heartbeat and lets it reassure him, imagines Alex’s blood and spirit mixed with his own.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well. i finished this.  
> i left it for a couple weeks, just trying to feel it out, mull it over, and when i did go back to it it was exceptionally easy - it just wanted to be written, it turns out.
> 
> so here's the end of this road.

Ben thinks with amusement that Caleb proves to be much less adept at finding allies than he is foes.

They are greeted with whoops and hollers as they ride proud into Washington’s camp, and the man himself smiles wide, ducking out of his work tent at the sound of the commotion. Lafayette is at his heel and he grins as he kisses each of them in greeting. He orders a soldier to lead their tired horses to the river and takes Ben by the wrist, pulling him into Washington’s tent before the taller General has even had a chance to say hello. Lafayette’s curls bounce and his dark eyes are shining. He yanks Tallmadge into a corner, speaking in hushed tones.

“It has been done, then, yes?” he asks, wringing his hands conspiratorially. He’s - excited, Ben realizes with a start that’s not as jolting as it would have once been. Due to his easy smile and polite manner, he often forgets that the Marquis is somewhat bloodthirsty. Of course he’d want to be the first to know of their success.

He nods, considering it, how it had felt to jam a knife into soft flesh and drag it up, how after it all the red sheet of his rage had dissipated into a fine mist and floated away on thin air. All at once the event had been exhilarating and entirely insignificant, and if the stakes had been any lower Ben might almost regret his haste. Almost.

Lafayette grins, teeth bright white. Pats his wrist affectionately as he brushes past him to request dismissal from Washington, who has just reentered. Washington holds a hand up to silence him midsentence. “I hope your journey was a good one,” he says to Ben and Caleb, looking between them. Ben smirks. “Brewster got us lost no less than three times on the way back, Your Excellency. He’s not exactly suited to navigation work.”

“Lucky that he is only our brilliant inventor, then,” Washington laughs, and Caleb kicks his ankle in retaliation.

Lafayette, unused to being ignored, sighs, cocks his hip, pipes up again. “Sir, I really must request the evening - I shall fetch Hamilton and Laurens,” he rushes, tripping over his words, gesturing wildly. “We will all spend it - how you say? Making up.” Caleb snickers, and Washington, who seems to be in exceptionally good humor, simply smiles sympathetically at the Frenchman’s word choice and pats him on the shoulder. “Go,” he says. “All of you. It is a comfort to me that you have all found such joy in your friendship.”

Ben has little time to consider how paternalistic Washington’s grown - the telling way he relaxes when he knows all five of them are close by - before Lafayette is dragging him out of the tent once more, Caleb now in tow. “Washington does not know,” he declares, once they’re out of earshot.

Ben is admittedly taken aback. “Should he not -“

“Hamilton would not have it,” Lafayette interrupts, marching valiantly ahead to lead the way. A few steps behind him, Caleb trips over a fallen log and gasps as he temporarily loses his footing. Ben decides to continue nagging. “Does he not think it pertinent, now that the deed is done -“

Lafayette spins elegantly on his heel, leaves kicking up and swirling round him. “I have tried the convincing,” he says, and he sort of spits it, his quick temper showing. “You know Alexander. He does not do with the _convincing.”_

Even in broken English, he has a point. Ben holds up his palms in defeat.

*

The good wine is perhaps a little too good for the likes of them. Caleb gets drunk easily, and Hamilton gets impossibly louder in inebriation, and Laurens laughs open and easy, and Lafayette drapes himself around them all as much as he can, cuddly with drink. Ben welcomes it all, toasting to Alexander’s impassioned if incoherent speeches, smirking at John as Caleb and Lafayette wobble their way through a jig. Hamilton eventually ends up seated next to him by the fire, and he’s growing sleepy as the night winds down, and he leans his head hard against Ben’s shoulder, nuzzling his scratchy stubble into his shirt. Ben shifts and puts his nose in Hamilton’s loose hair, kissing his crown protectively. He catches John’s eye as he smiles over at them.

“Thank you,” Alex mumbles, simple and abrupt, and Ben lets out a contented sigh into his hair. He doesn’t know what to say. Hamilton very rarely stumps him speechless - though far more diplomatic than Alexander, he can usually lap the man in arguments - but now, faced with this, he isn’t sure. What does it justice? It’s not that he’s exactly done Alex a favor by slaying his attackers. It’s not as if he can tell him they’re square, that they’re even, and move on. It’s a rather odd thing to think about, something he remembers being so abstract - something that had never touched him before which he took up arms over, so personally involved without questioning.

“We care about you” is what he ultimately settles for, said firmly and solemnly, and though it sounds a little silly in the moment, when he remembers it later that night as he’s lying in Laurens’ quarters, squished between Caleb and Lafayette, Hamilton and John wrapped together on the cot, he can think of no alternative that would have been more succinct and true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love you guys. thank you for reading this and commenting on it and leaving kudos and all that stuff that encourages me  
> i hope the end isn't too trite, and i hope no mistakes are too glaring, because y'all know i don't beta.
> 
> best wishes~


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